A Day in the Life
Posted: May 31st, 2008, 6:20 am
The anticipation is only surpassed
by the tar-drenched smoke cascading
into desperate lungs that wait like baby birds
for mama to regurgitate their morning fix,
as the evil ogre nicotine oozes
into each and every panting cell
and tricks his weary brain into thinking
that everything is better. He devoutly believes
that low tar and menthol are for pussies
and collateral damage is meaningless
to a daredevil who has seen the gates
of hell ajar and does not expect the sun to rise.
Whiskey is a balm to his tortured throat
and the duo is the awesome tag-team of relief
to the soul-drain of career and the body jabs
of family crisis, and he can't remember
if the rye tastes good or if his response
is just a cheesy reward for a rat in a maze.
Dr. Quack won't inject his temples with cortisone
though he doesn't give a second thought to
hooking up two bit rock stars in search of
magic pills to get them going and stronger ones
to make them stop, or the fake-titted wannabe starlets
with significant sugar daddies that pull the strings
that ensure that their babies will have a smörgåsbord
of brightly colored wafers for the zombie fest
that is the birth of all night nympho marathons.
A virtually boundless pharmacy for moneyed takers,
The Doc with the scruples
that cannot be seen with the naked eye.
My friend says that it's everyone else's fault
that he got this way, that we all need a vice or two,
a drag
a shot
a silent scream.
by the tar-drenched smoke cascading
into desperate lungs that wait like baby birds
for mama to regurgitate their morning fix,
as the evil ogre nicotine oozes
into each and every panting cell
and tricks his weary brain into thinking
that everything is better. He devoutly believes
that low tar and menthol are for pussies
and collateral damage is meaningless
to a daredevil who has seen the gates
of hell ajar and does not expect the sun to rise.
Whiskey is a balm to his tortured throat
and the duo is the awesome tag-team of relief
to the soul-drain of career and the body jabs
of family crisis, and he can't remember
if the rye tastes good or if his response
is just a cheesy reward for a rat in a maze.
Dr. Quack won't inject his temples with cortisone
though he doesn't give a second thought to
hooking up two bit rock stars in search of
magic pills to get them going and stronger ones
to make them stop, or the fake-titted wannabe starlets
with significant sugar daddies that pull the strings
that ensure that their babies will have a smörgåsbord
of brightly colored wafers for the zombie fest
that is the birth of all night nympho marathons.
A virtually boundless pharmacy for moneyed takers,
The Doc with the scruples
that cannot be seen with the naked eye.
My friend says that it's everyone else's fault
that he got this way, that we all need a vice or two,
a drag
a shot
a silent scream.
